


Deliverance

by KnockbackNectar



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: 18th Century Prussia, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Hux's Character Was Modeled Off of Frederick the Great That's a Fact, Hux's Dad is Terrible, I'm Actually Trying Really Hard, Its Just Star Wars I Swear, Its Not a Fact I Just Like to Think It Is, Listen I Just Like Prussia From a History Point of View, M/M, Slow Burn, There's Horses, its just an au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-24 09:09:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13808055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KnockbackNectar/pseuds/KnockbackNectar
Summary: Ben, a decorated Austrian cavalry officer, finds himself stranded in the middle of Prussia, which, if he was being honest, is unfortunate but not terrible. It's only when he gets plucked up by soldiers and dragged to the feet of the strange, redheaded prince that things begin to go from bad to worse. The Prussians are intent on picking apart his past for reasons he is loath to reveal, while the calculating young royal is eager to dispatch his father and drag the country into a fully fledged war with the Holy Roman Empire.





	1. Chapter 1

When the officers in the pretty blue coats found him, Ben knew he had been left for dead. He knew, with that cold, desperate feeling that settles into your chest and turns the adrenaline in your veins to ice. Prussian winters are not kind. _Prussia_ is not kind. 

But the men in the blue coats pulled him from the frostbitten bushes, his tattered uniform clutching the branches, and dragged him through the snow. They laid him in the dirt beside a sputtering fire while they barked and roared and tossed around vulgar jokes. Ben managed to cling to consciousness as the flames cast grotesque shadows that grew between trees. 

When the morning came, the soldiers did not spare their food on him. They yanked his arms around their shoulders and pulled him through the caked snow. His head lolled about on a neck that was frozen stiff. Thoughts cartwheeled through his head in a disorganized dance. 

Ben struggled to force words through his cracked lips. 

“Wh’t do you want w’th me?”

A few of the closest soldiers laughed. They yapped in clipped German. 

“He speaks!”

“The pretty face has found his tongue.”

Ben groaned and let himself fall limp. 

The trip through the forest was a heavy slush slog. Tree tops vanished in great plumes of white. By the time they made it to a town, Ben could think of nothing but the rhythmic thrum of soldier’s feet, the din of marching songs, and the numbness of his own limbs. 

“Where are we?” Ben rasped. Saliva dripped from his mouth and froze before it reached his chin. 

The soldier on his right grunted. “Berlin”

Had he the energy, Ben would have cursed. Instead he wheezed. “Where are you taking me?”

The man shrugged and it sent a bolt of pain down Ben’s side. The solider to his left, a boy with wild dark hair grinned. “Let the man know. Who would he tell?”

The other solider eyed his subordinate and huffed. “You’re going to the palace.”

“Which one?” Ben asked. In a territory as shattered by warring enclaves as the Holy Roman Empire was, castles were quick to come by, and palaces were even quicker.  
The officers exchanged glances. “The Prussian palace, of course.”

Realizing he would get nowhere with this interrogation, Ben let his head rock back on his shoulders. His muscles had begun to ache from bunching in the cold, and he was weak from shivering and days without food. To his reeling mind, the idea of princes and palaces was a fever dream. 

The soldiers jostled him around until he didn’t know what was cloud or snow. Cold wooden slats rose to meet his back, and Ben felt a layer of ice snap under him. Horses shuddered, stamped and breathed hot steam into the air, but it did nothing to warm him. Somewhere in his half-lucid mind he realized he’d been tossed onto a cart. 

Someone shouted, a mare whinnied, and the world under him began to move. Ben promptly passed out. 

Ϫ

The Berlin Palace was an opulent remnant of a bygone era, when kings ruled with iron fists and lavish courts, when politics was a dance of wills, when even the backwards duchies of the Empire hoped to crown themselves something half as regal as the Sun King. Its dungeon was a decrepit labyrinth illuminated with torches that belched more smoke than light. Swaths of mold gripped the rock in a patina so thick one could mistake it for velvet.

That was where Ben lay. His eyes were gooey with unconsciousness and nausea as he came to. There was no window in his cell, and thus no hope of a speedy escape. Not that his legs could carry through with one. They were draped beside him, humming with numbness, like sacks of feed. Ben gasped and made hacking attempts to purge his throat of the wad of phlegm it had gathered. A bitter taste lingered in his mouth that he tried to spit away. 

His attempt at speech yielded a croak. Fine.He would focus on the parts of his body that would work. Ben hauled himself into a sitting position. He wiggled his fingers. Those worked. His arms. Yes. His shoulders, stiff but functional. Ben coughed some more. Lungs, maybe not…His legs, to his relief, were slowly regaining feeling thanks to the heavy deerskin blanket that had been tossed over him. Ben ran his fingers over the skin. It was thin, teeming with fleas, and pocked with holes, but it was more than he could have hoped for. 

A few hacks of mucus later, Ben was granted the gift of speech. He half stumbled, half crawled to the grate of his cell where the light dripped in and released a cry more beast than man. Somewhere, fabric shifted and stamped. There were two low voices. 

“The man’s awake.”

“I can tell, _flachwichser_."

“What do we do?” 

“You must go tell Opan. I’ll stay here.” 

Ben let out a wheeze as a pair of feet went down the hall. He pressed his face against the thin slats of the grate, eyes struggling to focus in the golden haze beyond his cell. A flash of blue made him reel back, and a clang rattled the door on its hinges. A yelp escaped his throat. 

“Don’t think of trying something foolish. You’re to meet the prince soon.” 

“Which one?” Ben hated how his voice wavered. 

The voice gave a gruff laugh. It seemed about to reply before the footsteps that had vanished down the hall returned. 

“Opan said the prisoner’s to have this.” 

A brief silence. 

“This?” 

“Do you think I would lie?” 

The grate banged open and Ben threw up a hand to dim the filthy light. Something soft tumbled over the ground. Clang. He blinked and searched the ground with hungry hands. His fingers found a hard loaf of bread and soft cheese, both now dusted with moss. Ben didn’t care. He scarfed the food down so eagerly he didn’t hear the door unbolt. 

It swung open. Hands grabbed him up and wrenched him into the dank hall. 

“Don’t vomit,” said the voice that was now paired to a sharp, hawkish face. 

Ben vomited. 

The room they shoved him into wasn’t much different from his cell. It had the tang of drying blood and petrichor with just a hint of fear. Ben sunk into the half rotted chair he’d been provided. A table was spread out in front him with a couple mystery stains. 

He waited for what felt like an eon but could not have been more than a handful of minutes. The door eased open and in stepped yet another man in a snappy blue uniform. Ben sunk further as the man folded a piece of parchment and tucked it into his coat. The door locked and he leaned onto the table. 

Ben stared up at him. He had an unkind face made of hard cheekbones and scowls. 

“You’re from Saxony?” he said. 

Ben wasn’t sure he had any choice but to answer,“…Yes.” 

“What part?” 

His eyes flickered away, “…Dresden.” 

“I was not aware Saxony had its own military.” 

“I doesn’t. I fought for the Empress.” 

“In the cavalry, correct?” 

“Yes.” 

The man stood back from the table and took a few paces. “What was Dresden like?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“What neighborhood did you live in?” 

“I—…” 

“What about your parents?” 

“My—…what? What does that have to do with anything?” 

“Just answer the question.” 

“Not until you tell me why.” 

“You answer because I’m asking.” 

“Hey,” Ben stood hard enough to make the chair topple. Blood rushed from his head and his vision went spotty. “I’m getting tired of these questions—“ 

“Questions you’re struggling to answer,” the man said. 

“—and I’d appreciate it if just one of you would tell me what the hell is going on here. Who are you? Why aren’t I dead? Why bother picking me out of the snow?” his face was hot from ire, but his legs wouldn’t listen. Ben was forced to sit back down or else pass out again and lose his last shred of dignity. 

The man stared down his angular nose. “My name is Tritt Opan. I work for his highness, _Kronprinz_ of Bradenburg, and in extension, his father the King of Prussia. You are here because he asked me to question you. Now, I would like to get back to completing my d—“ 

“That barely answered my question.” 

Opan leaned into Ben’s face and the table under him creaked. “You are a prisoner, nothing more nothing less. You will be silent unless spoken to and you will answer me unless you wish to be tossed back out in the snow.” 

“Why am I here?” 

The man landed a blow across his jaw that had Ben crying out. He found himself sprawled across the floor. Opan, above him, fixed his coat. 

“You will learn your place.” 

“I know my place,” Ben wheezed. “And it is _not_ in Prussia.” 

Opan snorted. He glanced briefly around the room. “Perhaps not. Perhaps it would be better for you to rot in your cell until you become more cooperative,” He stepped over, yanked Ben up by his collar, and slammed him back into the chair. “How long did you serve?” 

Ben gathered spittle on his tongue and sneered to spit it into his face, but the officer grabbed him by his chin. 

“How long?” 

“A few years. I don’t know. Time flies…” 

“You’re lying.” 

Ben tried to wrench his face out of the man’s hands, but Opan dug in with nails. “I’d been in the cavalry for two years.” 

“Your rank?" 

“ _Rittmeister_.” 

“You had a squadron then?” 

“Yes. I did.” 

“And you abandoned them?” 

Ben’s face twitched. He pulled his lips back into a snarl. “I didn’t.” 

“What happened then?” 

“I—….It’s complicated…” 

“We have time,” Opan unhanded him and sat on the table. He stared down at Ben with a mixture of disgust and perfect disinterest. 

“Not enough.” 

“What happened?” 

“I was forced to leave—dismissed, not exiled. And before you ask, I got into a fight with another officer. I was found at fault and that was that.” 

“See? Not so complicated,” his face curled into smugness. “You were fine with leaving then?” 

“Of course not. But staying would have made it worse. Austria is one province out of many.” 

“I see. Well,” Tritt slipped from the table and wandered over to the door. Ben watched each of his easy movements with a heart that thrummed in panic. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’ve asked all I need to. It’s time for you to meet the prince.” 

He was not so much guided as he was shoved through the upper corridors of the palace. His feet presented as much hazard to his health as the blades at the soldier’s hips. Ben tried to assess the damage in glances he caught from mirrors that hung through the halls. His dark curls had been reduced to a mess of knots and twigs, his eyes wide and animal. Most noticeable was the scar that crossed his face like some garish red river winding between mountains. Seeing it sent a shudder of hot dread down his spine. At least it wasn’t dripping blood anymore. 

The man with the hawk face grabbed him by his collar as two ornate wooden doors unfolded to reveal a wide empty room, save a dais and an empty throne. Ben tried to look around, but the marble floor slammed into his face. 

“Wait here.” 

Ben let out a pathetic noise. “Where else would I go?” 

The doors groaned shut as he tried to sit up. Two guards stood at the entrance, hands resting on their saber hilts. 

“What am I doing here?” he rasped. 

They soldiers responded with steely silence. 

“Please. I’m not—“ 

A door, previously unseen and tucked into the wallpaper, creaked open. Ben felt his insides flutter in apprehension. His throat clenched as heels clicked from the threshold. 

The man who walked in was not entirely what he expected. 

He was exceptional in the bright orange flare of his hair and the blue of his eyes that stared down at Ben with hint of neither malice nor kindness. They were just a few shades lighter than the uniform that hung, well-tailored, on his shoulders. There was nothing about him that screamed either German or prince besides his posture: that not of a soldier but of one who commands them. 

“Who’s this?” he spoke German with something of an accent. 

“The soldier we found at the border, my prince” 

His mouth quirked into a slight frown as he spoke now to himself, this time in French. “His uniform is Imperial cavalry. Where’s his horse?” 

Ben spoke before the guard could, “She died. Shot out from under me when I was-” He paused and looked up at the prince, who was now raising an eyebrow. Ben glanced back down. 

“ _Vous parlez français_?” 

Ben didn’t dare look up as he nodded. Dread crawled back into his gut and coiled like some great serpent. 

“What happened to your face?” 

“…Saber…” 

“Hm. Look at me.” 

Ben remained still, staring at the intricate patterns in the marble. 

“I said-“With a flick of the prince’s hand a guard rushed forward, and Ben let out a cry as he was ripped back by his hair, “look at me…” 

“Your highness,” Ben sneered but sputtered when blood turned the air acrid and began to drip down his face. 

“That’s a nasty wound,” the prince said. “Whose saber?” 

“I don’t know whose exact-“ 

“How long were you in the snow?” 

“I don-“ 

“Hours? Days?” 

Ben sighed. “Hours…” 

“You’re sure?” 

“No.” 

“Where are you from?” 

Ben’s dread turned to indignation. He gritted his teeth and stared at the prince. Blood pooled on his tongue and he spat it before the soldier’s feet. “You’re not my prince.” 

The prince gave him a bland smile. “Defiance is a feat with a knife at your back. Still, we can change that. Where are you from?” 

“You drag me here without any explanation and expect me to answer you at a whim, yet you tell me nothing. I won’t speak until you answer my questions.” 

“We have ways of making you speak,” the prince stayed the guards as they began to unsheathe their blades, “but I find the practice boorish. What would you like to know?” 

Ben yanked his head away from the guard with the fingers knotted in his hair. He glared up at the prince without assistance. “Who are you?” 

He halted for a moment, responses considered and rejected in his mind before he settled on, “My father is the King of Prussia.” 

“You’re the _kronprinz_? The Hohenzollern?” 

“That’s correct.” 

Ben let out a few choice German curses. 

“Now that that’s out of the way, where are you from?” 

______ _ _

“France.” 

_______ _ _ _

“Liar.” 

________ _ _ _ _

“Holy Roman Empire.” 

_________ _ _ _ _ _

“Obviously. Where?” 

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Saxony. I've said this already.” 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

"Not to me," The prince’s jaw twitched. “You’re in the cavalry?” 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I was…” 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The prince strolled backwards. His bright blue coat fluttered in time with the click of his shoes. “So how did you end up here?” 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I was dragged here by your m—“ 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“No. Your horse, your cut. How did they happen?” 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Ben blinked. His lips parted to speak. 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Your highness.” 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The prince turned to the doors that had opened again. A new man stood in the open doorway, red faced and winded. He clutched a crumpled note. “Your father’s back from Wusterhausen.” 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Already?” 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Yes, your highness.” 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The prince frowned. His freckles danced. “Very well…” The messenger turned and hurried out as the guards hauled Ben to his feet. His knees buckled and arms hard to hoist him back upright. “I’ve asked all I need for the moment.” 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Ben’s head lolled back. Stars glittered on the ceiling. “Wait…please. What’s your name?” 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The prince looked back at him over his shoulder. Ben could feel his gaze walk up and down. “It’s Armitage.” 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Well…that’s not a very German name,_ Ben thought to himself right before he passed out. 

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	2. Chapter 2

Ben’s body jerked before his eyes flickered open. A gasp caught in his throat as he scrambled back, hands on slimy stone, breath shuddering in his chest. He saw the glint of a saber that wasn’t there. His mare fell out from under him, over him, crashing through the underbrush. He tasted blood until his back met a wall and reality flashed back. 

Frosty air blew in from an opening in the stone. Ben’s shaking hands reached out for the mangy deerskin and he pulled it over his shoulders; his lungs felt like they were full of pond water. The outside world sounded of falling snow and soldiers drills. 

“Hey…” he crawled towards the stone door, “Hey…is someone out there?” 

There was silence aside from the crunch of torches. 

“Please. I’m…starving...”

At another stretch of nothingness, Ben rolled over with a groan. A hacking cough rose with a pain in his chest and he found himself wrapping the skin around his body tighter. It was a fever dream, this place. 

A whinny outside had his eyes rove to the slat in the interlocked bricks. Stamping hooves kicked snow into his dungeon and he recognized the panicked neigh of a horse about to spook. Angry German overtook it with the clatter of tack and the jangle of reins. 

Ben closed his eyes. 

_Bang bang bang bang_

“Get up.”

Ben roused with a grumble. The door clanged forth and spewed yellow haze. The swishing of uniforms was accompanied by prying hands that pulled him from his dank corner and into the hall. 

“Hey...no…I w’s sleepin’…”One of the men landed a blow across his face that had him seeing fireflies. Hot blood seeped onto his tongue as he sputtered, “…’ny food at least?”

“Will someone shut him up?”

“Y’u could ask nicely...”

The wrap was ripped from his body and tossed into a foul smelling puddle. Ben started to shiver. His clothes clung to his body and were beginning to teem with the odor of sweat and mold. 

“He’s a skinny thing.”

“And he wears his hair like a girl.”

“And he can understand you,” Ben growled.

The men huffed and shoved him. He couldn’t keep up with his feet and tripped over the toes of his shoes. Ben’s face collided with the stone, and his breath hadn’t even been knocked out of his lungs before he was ripped back to standing. A coppery smell sliced through the ash, and he knew his damned cut had split again. 

“Shouldn’t we clean him up?”

“No point.”

Ben groaned. He was yanked through the bowels of the palace once more and thrust into the winter sun where his skin was freshly ripped at and blistered by the wind. His insides began to chatter like they would shake right out of his skin. 

He glared into the wind in time to see a massive warmblood stamp and rear. His rider wrangled with the reins and shouted, spurs catching the light. Ben instinctively backed away from the lashing hooves. His guards grabbed him by his collar and forced him forwards. 

“What’s he doing? What’s wrong with her?”

“Keep walking.”

Ben craned his neck to try to look back. The mare let out a whinny and billowed stream from her flaring nostrils. Even in the encroaching fog, Ben could see the whites of her eyes flashing. 

The guards pushed him forwards. He found himself guided through a narrow stone archway that opened into a snow laden courtyard. Walls cut the wind but Ben still shivered. In the center of the enclosure stood a modest wooden structure, unremarkable were it not for its intended purpose. As Ben was pressed closer, he noticed a layer of frost had settled over the wide blade that hung from it. The blade that was designed to come down on his neck and liberate his head from his body in one slice. 

Ben dug his heels into the ground. In his years spent in the cavalry it was not unlike him to contemplate the method of his death. He’d become accustomed to the thought of a bullet through his ribs, or a wound that would drain his blood on the battlefield. He’d even thought maybe he could get a nice infection and settle down for a few months before his grueling death. Decapitation via guillotine in a foreign land hadn’t even made his list. 

He fought against the guards, but this was a job that they had grown accustomed to. Ben was moved forward through the cold, his failing attempts at resistance leaving dirty grooves through the snow. 

A hand snatched his hair and Ben cried out. The guards kicked the back of his knees and he crumpled to the ground with a thud. He could hear the creak of rope as a knot was untied and pulled taut. Above him, the blade glinted. The guard with the fingers knotted in his hair jammed his neck through the stock and pressed a boot heel into his back. 

Ben closed his eyes. It was not that he was resigned to death, but that he’d heard stories of people surviving stretches of time without their heads. The image of blood seeping from his neck and staining the wood red was not the one he wanted to be his last. Above him, the blade shivered as the rope holding it was pulled back. He clenched his eyes tighter. 

“Wait. That’s enough.”

His eyelids flickered open. There were boots in the mist of snowflakes, with a neat trail behind them to a door that now hung open in the courtyard. 

“He’s not to be executed.”

The heel vanished from Ben’s back. 

“Our orders are from the king.”

“As are these.”

Ben tried to peer upwards to see who was speaking. He could make out the rumple of parchment through the wind as a letter was passed over his shacked head. 

“I don’t understand.”  
“You don’t need to. You just need to follow the orders, _Leutenant_ Mitaka. You are always so good at that.”

“He just changed his mind?”

“It’s the king we’re talking about.”

“…right.”

Ben was yanked back by his frozen shackles and fell face first into the snow. The guard, Mitaka, hauled him upwards and kept him from stumbling. 

“What are we supposed to do with him?”

The pair of boots, now recognizable as Opan, stared down his nose at Ben and sniffed, “Clean him up.”

Ben fought with the shackles that were beginning to dig into his frozen wrists. Movement, a flash of red, from above the courtyard made him look up. His eyes met the cool blue of the prince’s through the waver of a windowpane. 

“The usual way?”

Opan grinned, “The usual way.”

 

The last thing Ben’s phlegm-infested lungs needed was a dose of frozen water. He shuddered as chunks of sleet slid down from his hair and across his cheek. These idiots were going to kill him. Ben reeled back as another bucketful of ice water was slung across his body. 

“Enough,” Ben snarled. The word rose from a guttural place in his chest and crossed his lips as more of a roar than a plea. For a dazed moment he stood, shivering, his bare back pressed against stone. Something was tossed into his face. Another animal skin. This one, thankfully, denser than the last. 

“Dry yourself off before you catch a sickness.”

He did so and wrapped the fur around his shoulders. It smelled of campfire and blood, but he ignored it, deciding instead to treasure it for the warmth and silken texture on his skin. He blinked through the darkness. One would think in a palace like this, someone would invest in better lighting for the dungeons, but alas. He wasn’t squinting long. Someone thrust a torch into his face and slammed a bundle against his chest. 

“What’s this?” he wheezed. 

“Clothes. Put them on.”

He stared down through the ashy light at the fabrics in his hands. They were Prussian blue. 

“No.”

“No?” The torch pulled back to illuminate Opan’s face. 

“I won’t wear your colors.”

“Fine then. Freeze. Or wear a noose instead. I don’t care”

Ben struggled with the skin and the cold. The flame bobbed away and Opan with it. He grit his teeth and rolled his options over in his mind until the torch was little more than a sputtering glimmer in the hall. 

“Wait.”

It kept dancing away. 

“Wait!”

There was a long pause as Opan let him flounder, “…Well?”

“I-…I’ll wear them…but only if you tell me what’s going on.”

He pulled the blanket in tighter as the sound of Opan’s clicking shoes came closer. Heat from the flame waved in his eyes did little to negate the way Ben’s teeth chattered, but it egged on the stars dancing below his lashes. 

“You are sorely mistaken, _Rittmeister_ , if you think your well-being is a bargaining chip. Put your clothes on and shut. Up.”

Ben did his best to hold Opan’s gaze. The draft was getting to him, and he realized he would have to choose between the uniform and death from the cold. Ben began to pull the clothes on. He ran the fur over his hair in an attempt to dry the matted mess. When that didn’t work, he opted for shaking it out like a hound. Opan huffed and stepped back. 

“Enough of that. Follow me.”

Ben followed along at a marked distance. His eyes flited back and forth down the halls, struggling to memorize the winding path. The stench of bodies and must and wiggled its way into his nose like an intrepid worm that would be hell to dislodge. 

He was brought back out into the glittering winter sun. Ben flinched from it and squinted as Opan set the torch aside. 

“Where are you taking me?”

“I really should have let Mitaka cut out your tongue.”

Ben frowned but shuffled after Opan. The Prussian coat across his shoulders did more to block out the cutting wind than he expected. He tried to ignore the bright red flare of the collar and his simmering feelings of treason. 

Opan led him behind the palace. The blizzard was beginning to die down and Ben could finally take a look at the exterior. Now coated in a layer of snow, Stadtschloss was a thing out of a dream. White stone was rimmed with rows of icicle teeth that jutted from the eaves and buttresses. Each windowpane shivered with frost that the wind had caked into ornate patterns. Its ice castle mystique was broken only by a glistening copper dome that sat upon the palace as a crown would upon a cushion. 

“What’s the matter, _Rittmeister_? Never seen a palace before?”

Ben scowled, “I have a name.”

“Good for you. I haven’t asked.” 

Ben made himself silent, but did not spare Opan a sneer. He was led through the _schloßplatz_ , the palace square, until they reached the bank of the Spree River. 

A building smaller, but no less opulent than the palace, stood before them. It too had a tress of snow, but the area around it had been stamped enough to reveal the dying grass below. Ben recognized the marks of hooves all around him, and he could no longer contain his questions.

“What is this?”

“Neuer Marstall.”

“Your stable?”

Opan only nodded. 

Ben peered up at the place as they neared. He estimated it must have held two hundred horses at maximum capacity, “Why did you bring me here?”

“Do you ever wonder if a question is worth asking before you say it or do you simply enjoy the sound of your own voice that much?” Opan’s voice took on a sharp lilt and he sent Ben a withering glare. 

The inner walkway of the marstall was covered and warm. Snow had been shoveled to the sides and was beginning to melt from the heat of bodies and breath. Horse heads poked out of stalls. Ben was taken aback by how large most of them were. Dark and soulful eyes studied him as he walked past, their snouts every imaginable color and smothered in thick fur. He assumed they were all warmbloods, averaging close to seventeen hands. Opan noticed none of them. 

Instead, he brought Ben down to the end of the stable, down past where the stalls were empty. The last pen opened to a door and a window, but that was not what he first noticed. There was a grey stallion stood with hooves planted in the straw. The moment his flashing eyes found Ben, he whinnied, stamped and kicked out against the wall. Ben jolted. 

“This is why you’re here,” Opan said as the stallion spat steam from his flaring nostrils. 

“I don’t understand.”

“The king has had…difficulties with this particular stallion. Break him and you can keep your life.”

A nervous noise rose in Ben’s throat but he fought to keep it down, ”You’re joking.”

“I am not a joking man. You were in the cavalry, were you not?"

“I was but…I didn’t—...I never—…”

“This stallion was meant to be a gift to the prince. He’s sired from the king’s own warhorse. If he is manageable by the start of the New Year, you don’t lose your head.” 

“That’s in three weeks.”

“So it is.”

Ben gaped. This couldn’t be right, “How old is he?”

“A year and a half.”

“Why don’t you geld him?”

Opan snorted. “The future king of Prussia is not going to be strutting about on a gelding. He needs a stallion.”

In response to this, the horse banged against the stall door with a hoof and threw his head repeatedly. 

“And he needs…this one in particular?”

“Yes.”

“Right…”

Opan grabbed a halter from the peg and held it out to Ben. 

“What, right now?”

“Oh, no, sorry. Did you want some leisure time before you redeem yourself in the eyes of the king?” He shoved the leather into Ben’s hands, “Get to work.”

The stallion took this as encouragement and spun in his stall, huffing and snarling. 

“Does he have a name at least?”

“He does not. And don’t think about giving him one. That’s not your place.”

“Of course not…”

Opan stepped back and waved his hands. Ben crept forwards with trepidation and unhitched the stall door. 

Within, the stallion spun to stare him down. He was careful to hold the halter up and shake it lightly so his intentions were known. The horse’s nose flared as he tossed his head around let out a trumpeting whinny. Somewhere in the _marstall_ , a mare whinnied back. 

“Easy, boy…” Ben slid into the stall. Hay crunched under his boots. The stallion stood his ground but stretched his neck forwards. Ben held out a hand to let him sniff. “Hey there…hell—“

The stallion snapped at his fingers. 

“Hey,” Ben bared his teeth right back, “Don’t do that.”

The grey rocked on his forequarters and launched a buck that was powerful enough to dislodge a chunk of ice from the rafters and send it crashing to the ground between them. It splintered into crystalline fragments that sent the stallion into a spooked frenzy. Ben took it upon himself to slip back out of the stall before the startled warmblood came crashing into him. He began to heave wet coughs. 

Opan raised an eyebrow, “You’re off to a smashing start.”

“Shut up.”

Tritt took a step away, back towards the exit, “If you need me…don’t. And before you think of trying to slink your way back to Saxony, remember there are more soldiers in the schloßplatz than there are in your entire duchy.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

Ben watched Opan waltz out of the stable. He did not miss the presence of two guards situated at the arch. Tame the horse or lose your head. It seemed a simple enough task on the surface. Still…Ben looked back at the grey. He had a bad feeling about this.

**Author's Note:**

> Listen I'm convinced that Frederick the Great had to be involved in influencing the creation of Hux's character. Being the idiot that I am I couldn't help but decide to write a whole Kylux Fic based on that. Also, I'm really very much trying to keep this as historically accurate as possible but I also suck so things might be off and I might be very slow in updating. Thanks.


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